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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24378445">and california never felt like home to me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscoCritic/pseuds/DiscoCritic'>DiscoCritic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Grieving, Not RPF, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, The Fabulous Killjoys (Danger Days) Are Not MCR, this is kind of a heavy one</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:21:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,061</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24378445</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscoCritic/pseuds/DiscoCritic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A week after the report, they know Jet Star and the Kobra Kid aren’t coming back. It’s been too long. They would’ve radioed by now. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>and california never felt like home to me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>warning for brief suicidal thoughts and mentions of depression. DM me on tumblr if you need me to elaborate before you read!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"Bad news from the Zones, tumbleweeds.” </em>
</p><p>When the report first breaks through in a fizz of static, they exchange glances but say nothing. That’s the fourth time this month. They’ll be back in the next few days. They always are. </p><p>Two days after the report, Party Poison starts to get a little worried. Ghoul tells him they probably got caught in a bad clap and have to hide for a while. They’ll be back in the next few days. They always are.  </p><p>Five days after the report, when there’s been no calls, no signals, no nothing, Ghoul starts to worry, too. </p><p>It was only a supply run. It shouldn’t be taking this long. </p><p>Six days after the report, the stress begins to show. Poison’s hands shake more often than not, and neither of them can sleep for longer than a few hours. </p><p>A week after the report, they know Jet Star and the Kobra Kid aren’t coming back. It’s been too long. They would’ve radioed by now. </p><p>Ghoul feels it in his chest. A dull ache, a shortness of breath, a pain that’s just as physical as it is emotional. It’s been there the whole time, but a week since the report is when the true weight of it begins to settle in. </p><p>A week since the report, six days since the last time he laughed, four days since the last time he could breathe right, and two days since the last time he spoke. </p><p>They both know. </p><p>Fun Ghoul’s eyes are red-rimmed for hours. Poison lays down on his mattress with his little brother’s thin blanket and doesn’t get up unless it’s to grab something to eat or to take a piss, and even then he’s back in the same spot within five minutes. </p><p>The radio stays on, but it might as well be static. There’s only one thing they want to hear, and it’s never going to be said. The reports before were all lies, rumors to get gangs and rogues off the Fabulous Four’s back and let them rest a little, but they were all lies that didn’t go on for longer than a couple of days. This time it’s not a lie. This time it’s real. </p><p>
  <em> “Looks like Jet Star and the Kobra Kid </em>
</p><p>
  <em> had a clap with an exterminator </em>
</p><p>
  <em> that went all Costa Rica... </em>
</p><p>
  <em> got themselves ghosted, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> dusted out on Route Guano.” </em>
</p><p>Never seemed like one single sentence could cause so much grief.</p><p>They’re both like ticking bombs afterward, waiting for their time to explode. Except it never comes. It just builds and builds and builds, manifesting in both of them in multiple ways, and none of them are healthy ones. </p><p>Fun Ghoul gets angry. He doesn’t talk; he goes outside and shoots bottles off the hood of the trans am until they’re riddled with so many holes that they could blow away in the wind. Then, inevitably, he ends up on his hands and knees, punching the ground, his knuckles bloody and his hands bruised and aching. Then he goes back inside and pretends nothing ever happened. An inescapable cycle that repeats hour after hour, day after day. </p><p>Poison becomes desolate and depressed. Fun Ghoul finds him clutching one of Jet Star’s bracelets in one hand and holding one of Kobra’s shirts in the other, sobbing in the corner of the diner. He doesn’t even notice Ghoul, who’s got his blaster in hand and is heading out the door to destroy a round of soda cans. </p><p>It’s almost two weeks after the report when Ghoul decides enough is enough. Party Poison is still in the same outfit he’s been wearing the whole time. He hasn’t brushed his hair or washed his face, and he’s barely eaten or drunk anything. He looks thinner and older, his face without its usual glow and his whole body worn out and listless. </p><p>“When was the last time you put on new clothes?” Ghoul says from the doorway, a hand on the frame to brace himself. He doesn't have good balance and sometimes he trips over the air. His palms and forearms are dusty because outside, unbeknownst to Party Poison, he lost his balance and fell on his way back in. The dirt was the only thing that caught him. </p><p>Because Poison sure wasn't there for him. He was curled on his mattress with a pair of Kobra’s sunglasses tight in his hand, and he wouldn't have seen Ghoul sprawled on the ground. Probably wouldn't have cared, either. Too caught up in his own grief to give a shit about Ghoul's.</p><p>Party Poison barely acknowledges the question. Just shrugs without looking up.  </p><p>“Then change now. We're going for a drive.”</p><p>Poison shakes his head. </p><p>“Don’t wanna hear it. I ain't gonna let you lay around like this anymore. You think they'd want this for us?”</p><p>Poison sits up, a menacing glare on his face. Underneath that mask of weariness is fury. Fury that the world is a blown-to-hell piece of fucking <em> shit </em> that snatched his brother and his best friend away without any rhyme or reason to it. </p><p>Ghoul knows this because it’s the same fury that’s been chasing him for the past nine days, too. </p><p>“Doesn’t matter what they would want,” Poison spits, stretching out the words, voice rough from underuse, “because they’re fucking <em> dead, </em>honey. You heard the same thing I did. Dusted out on Route Guano. Don't care what they want, ‘cause neither of ‘em are here to stop me.” </p><p>He looks wrecked. Ghoul knows that if Poison was the only one left, if Ghoul had been totalled along with the others, Poison would already be dead. Maybe not physically, but definitely emotionally. Even now, it’s clear he’s changed. Part of him disappeared into the dust the same time Kobra and Jet did. </p><p>Ghoul’s just trying to hang on to whatever he has left. </p><p>So he responds with a tight jaw. “<em>I’m </em> here. So get your ass up and get in the fucking car. I swear to god I’ll drag you out myself if you’re not with me in five minutes.” </p><p>And with that, he turns and leaves.</p><p>He heads to the passenger seat of the trans am. The bikes are gone. Jet and Kobra took those, but it doesn’t matter. Poison and Ghoul won’t need them now. They’ll have the car to themselves, and the whole diner, too. </p><p>Rations will last a lot longer now. </p><p>Poison slides in the driver’s seat, slamming the door with a bang that would make Ghoul jump if he wasn’t so tired. If he wasn’t already sick of this new warped reality without the other two in it. </p><p>“Where are we going?” Poison didn’t change clothes, but at least he got out of bed, and to be honest, Ghoul wasn’t even expecting that. </p><p>“Anywhere. Just drive.”</p><p>So Poison does. They drive and drive and drive and drive, and as the tires speed over worn-down asphalt and rubber and the surroundings blur together, Ghoul doesn’t say a thing. It’s the first time the music hasn’t been on during a drive in years, but neither of them move to change that. It wouldn’t fit this somber mood anyway. </p><p>It’s as if being in this car, the place all four of them shared for years, has sucked any remaining particles of happiness from the air. </p><p>Nearly thirty minutes pass, according to the radio clock, before Poison speaks up. Somehow they’ve turned onto Route Guano. Legend has it that the road stretches itself as far as you need it to go.</p><p>If that’s really true, their drive won’t ever come to an end.</p><p>“Where are we going?” Poison asks again. </p><p>Ghoul doesn’t raise his head, though the answer has changed. “Nowhere.”</p><p>Jet Star refilled the gas tank the day before he left. They won’t run out for a while, and when they do, it won’t matter. </p><p>Poison breathes, a cracked, shuddering noise that Ghoul can feel in his own chest. It sounds like glass shattering, so fine and fragmented, and Ghoul looks over and sees tears clinging to Poison’s bottom eyelashes. “Do you believe in the Phoenix Witch?” Poison asks quietly.</p><p>“No,” Ghoul answers honestly, and it’s the moment he begins to fall apart. </p><p>If she was real, would she have let this happen? </p><p>“I think I do,” Poison says hoarsely. He swallows. “I hope she’s somewhere out there.”</p><p>It’s the first time he’s willingly brought up religion since Ghoul’s known him. Usually he shies away from the subject. Not anymore. </p><p>Maybe he’s doing the same thing Ghoul is. Maybe he’s trying to hold on to what he’s got left, too. </p><p>Ghoul doesn’t respond. </p><p>“You know what else?” Poison whispers. His lips are chapped and he swipes his tongue over them absentmindedly, fingers digging into the worn leather covering on the steering wheel. “In twenty years, everybody we know is gonna be dead. Maybe ten. Hell, I don’t think I’m gonna make it another two.” </p><p>He says it with so much shaking certainty that Ghoul begins to wonder if he can see the future. </p><p>“That’s the way it is out here, Pois,” Ghoul simply responds. He fingers the edges of a hole in his jeans. “Nobody gets a happy ending.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Happy endings aren't real. The mere idea is bullshit, a lie probably invented by some rich snob up in the Silicon District in the city who never knew suffering and figured everybody else was a lucky little bitch, too. </p><p>Ghoul's got news for them. Whoever the fuck they were, they got it wrong. Ain’t no happy endings. Not out here. </p><p>They keep driving. Time ceases to exist as the sun begins to set behind them. Colors streak across the sky, but Ghoul doesn’t bother looking. Usually Kobra or Poison would point it out and everyone would all stop to marvel at it, but not now. Maybe it’s a beautiful sight, but his life is drained of beauty.</p><p>In fact, his life is drained of everything. Never before has he felt so empty. Like there’s a black hole in his chest right where his heart should be and it’s going to suck everything in, trap it all in that black expanse of forever, until there’s nothing left. </p><p>“How come we haven’t seen their bodies yet?” he asks. By this point they’ve been driving for hours. <em> Dusted out on Route Guano.</em> This is Route Guano. They should have come across them by now. </p><p>“Nine days is plenty of time to get bagged up,” Poison replies.</p><p>Ghoul hangs his head. He’s right. A draculoid patrol would’ve gone by already. Their bodies are long gone. </p><p>Ghoul wonders how they’re going to have a burial if there’s nothing to bury.</p><p>Burn something, maybe. Take a match to their domino masks and let the ashes rise to the sky to meet the stars. </p><p>They had their helmets with them, but they left their masks at the diner. Sitting on one of the tables. He can close his eyes and remember seeing Kobra placing both down gently, careful not to get the strings twisted together. </p><p><em> Die with your mask on if you’ve got to. </em> That’s what the report said. </p><p>They didn’t even have a choice, did they? They didn’t know they were going to die until it happened. They didn’t even have a <em> choice</em>. </p><p>Ghoul feels sick to his stomach and completely, utterly alone, even though Poison is close enough to reach out and touch. He’s not really there, though. Not really. </p><p>Party Poison is somewhere else. He might never come back. </p><p>Right now he’s staring into space, body on autopilot. He’s looking in the direction of the road but his eyes aren’t even focused on it. </p><p>It’s a wonder he hasn’t crashed the car yet. </p><p>Ghoul thinks about how easy that would be. Just unbuckle a seatbelt, turn the wheel too hard, give up and let go. Maybe it’s painful, maybe it’s not, and then they’re gone, but at least in death they’d get to be a gang of four again. </p><p>He wonders if it hurt. If Kobra and Jet knew it was going to happen. Did they get shot off their bikes? Did they get forced to the ground and blasted through the back of the head? Did one of them die first and leave the other begging for someone to help? Did they feel it at all, or were they dust the moment the gun fired?</p><p>However they died, they didn’t deserve it. What they deserved was a natural death with the rest of the gang by their sides, and they didn't get that. </p><p>Fun Ghoul never thought he’d be one of the last ones. He always thought he’d go first. He’s careless with himself, and maybe that’s a problem, but for him, the adrenaline is what keeps it all going. That constant feeling of “oh, shit, I didn’t think about this enough” like a brick in his gut, right before whatever stupid thing he’s rushing into actually happens. </p><p>So naturally he’s shocked that Kobra and Jet, the two most happy, most careful, most <em>deserving-to-live</em> people of the Fabulous Four, are the first ones sinking into the sky. </p><p>Thinking about it makes him feel like he just swallowed something bitter. Like there’s a burst of loneliness on his tongue from a candy he never wanted to try. It seeps into his body and makes his bones feel ten times heavier than they should be. </p><p>He wonders if this is how Kobra used to feel when the nights got too late and the air got too still. Back then, it was hard to understand how he could have been so lonely with people surrounding him. </p><p>But Ghoul gets it now. </p><p>And if he’s going to be honest with himself—which he usually has a hard time doing—it <em> sucks</em>. Any more of this and he’s going to lose his mind. If it already hasn’t started going. </p><p>“Please don’t leave me,” he whispers to nobody at all. </p><p>Poison glances at him. There’s silence for a long moment, long enough that Fun Ghoul starts to wonder if he even said it out loud or if he just thought it, and then comes a “What do you mean?” </p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, Ghoul watches as Poison pretends to focus hard on the road, even though they both know there’s no other cars out there and he can barely see through the dirty windshield anyway. </p><p>He figures he might as well speak his mind. Nothing else to do, anyway. </p><p>“It’s been like you got ghosted, too. It’s been nine days. They’re gone. I’m not. Don’t be a living corpse.” </p><p>His voice goes up at the end of the sentence. Party Poison’s face turns red. </p><p>“What else do you want me to do?” </p><p>Poison doesn’t sound like himself. His tone is wrong. Tight. Clipped. Like he’s holding it all in. </p><p>The car speeds up. </p><p>Ghoul didn’t realize how fast they were going until now. They usually stay just above seventy miles per hour to save fuel, but they’re passing eighty now and Poison has no intention of slowing down. </p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“Then how’s that going to help me, <em> sugar? </em> ” Poison asks, and Ghoul hears the wounded anger in his voice. “Can’t <em> fix </em> nothing if you ain’t gonna tell me what’s wrong.” </p><p>What’s <em> wrong</em>? What’s wrong is that Jet Star and the Kobra Kid are <em> gone. </em> Dusted. Blasted. Ghosted. Shocked. Drafted. Zapped. </p><p>
  <em> Dead.  </em>
</p><p>Ghoul’s gripped with pain in his heart. The more he thinks about it, the more it hurts. He thought it would get easier. </p><p>It’s been nine days. It hasn’t gotten easier. </p><p>“I just want everything to go back to normal. I want you to be yourself again.”</p><p>Begging. Pleading. This is what Fun Ghoul becomes when he’s faced with a disaster.  </p><p>“Normal?” Poison whispers. His knuckles turn white and the speedometer needle begins to inch past the ninety mark. “You want everything to be normal, you want me to be <em> myself,</em> when my brother and one of my best friends is <em> dead</em>?” His voice grows to something reminiscent of a scream. Everyone in Battery City can hear him. “How can anything be <em> normal </em> anymore?”</p><p>He’s right. Life can’t be normal, because there’s no normal. Normal died along with Jet Star and the Kobra Kid. </p><p>“I don’t <em> know</em>, Party Poison!" Arms are thrown in the air of their own accord and one of Fun Ghoul's hands hits the roof of the car. Pain travels from his fingertip to his elbow but he doesn't even feel it. "I don’t <em> know</em>, okay? I just want them back, I want—I want—I want—” </p><p>And then he has to stop because he’s crying too hard, and then Poison’s crying too hard, and the gas pedal’s to the floor, and he doesn’t know how anything is ever going to be okay again, and they’re yelling, and they’re crying, and there’s so much ringing in his ears that Ghoul can barely hear what he’s saying, and he can barely hear what Poison’s saying, and Poison’s still driving. </p><p>And he hasn’t stopped once. </p><p>And he's not even steering. </p><p>And he's just holding the wheel and going faster and faster. </p><p>Broken. They are broken. They’re splinters of people, they’re halves of a whole, they’re destroyed beyond belief. It doesn’t matter if the Phoenix Witch or Destroya or God or <em> whoever </em> really does exist, because they let Jet Star and the Kobra Kid die, and Ghoul doesn’t want to meet anybody that could stand by and simply let that happen. </p><p>So that’s the moment Fun Ghoul gives up. He can see the crash in his head before it ever happens, can hear the sickening shriek of twisting metal and the horrific crunch of breaking bones just as clear as he can make out the glistening wetness on Poison’s cheeks. So he reaches for his seat belt buckle and he gets ready to close his eyes and let the damage rain down on him.</p><p>But the seat belt is stuck. It won’t come out from the buckle even when he yanks it. He’s trapped here, the stupid motherfucking safety precautions keeping him from his final rebellion, and it’s so fucking unfair<em>,</em> <em>so fucking unfair</em> that this cruel bastard of a world won’t even let him die the way he wants to. </p><p>He would scream if he had enough fight left in him. </p><p>“Goddammit,” he whispers, then slams his head against the headrest, hard enough for it to hurt, and then slumps. If Jet were here, he’d be on Ghoul’s case for risking another concussion. </p><p>It’s not like Ghoul cares anymore. He’s already fucked up in the brain enough. One more hit can’t hurt.</p><p>Ghoul glances over, and apparently it took him going limp in the passenger seat for Poison’s eyes clear. All at once, it hits him like a train, the realization that they’re about to run off the road. In one fluid movement, he tucks his hair behind his ear, adjusts the steering wheel, and eases off the gas pedal. The car comes to a stop right there in the middle of the road and the only sound is the rattling fragility of each breaking breath. </p><p>Ghoul drops his head into his hands. “I wanna go <em> home</em>,” he sobs, and he doesn’t even know what he’s talking about until the words come out of his mouth.  </p><p>This isn’t home without the other half of their crew. This is only a cruel, unfamiliar place filled with sand and stars and other people. Other people who can go on living their normal lives like nothing’s wrong, like Kobra Kid and Jet Star aren’t dead in a ditch somewhere. It's not home and it's not fucking fair. </p><p>The closest thing he ever had to a home in his eighteen miserable years of life was the camaraderie of his crew. Now it’s shattered into a trillion pieces, unable to be glued back together, and he feels just as helpless as he did the day his mother died and he lost everything. </p><p>Poison leans across the center console and Ghoul, unable to stop crying, touches his forehead to Poison’s shoulder. His tears soak into Poison’s sleeve. </p><p>God knows how long they sit there. All Ghoul knows is that he’s not the first one to pull away. Poison is, and as he settles back in his own seat, it takes everything Ghoul’s got to not reach for him again. </p><p>Silence reverberates through the interior of the trans am.</p><p>Beside him, Poison has his hands clasped together. His head is bowed. He’s murmuring things too quiet for Ghoul to hear. Maybe he’s not even saying anything. Maybe it's just that his lips are moving in the ghost of a message. </p><p>He’s praying. </p><p>Ghoul watches him. He doesn’t say anything, but Poison seems to know what he’s thinking. When he finishes, he raises his head and whispers to Ghoul, “Figured I’d give it a try. Maybe she’ll listen for once, ey?” </p><p>Fun Ghoul doubts it. </p><p>“I asked her,” Poison continues, and even his whispering seems like yelling when everything’s this quiet, “to keep them safe. And to tell them we miss them.” </p><p>Seems like he’s accepted it. Ghoul’s had to move on too many times before. He can’t let go of them this quickly. </p><p>Feels like throwing out the trash. Hiking the plastic bag over his shoulder and dumping it into the bin. Too casual. </p><p>He doesn’t dare voice this comparison to Poison. </p><p>“I won’t leave you again. I promise.” </p><p>They make eye contact. Ghoul just nods, because he doesn’t trust himself to speak without his lip quivering. He’ll hold Poison to that.</p><p>Somehow, they make it back to the diner. The drive must’ve revived something in him, because Poison manages to lead them back inside without shedding another tear. Ghoul doesn’t cry either, but he suspects that’s only because his tear ducts have dried out. </p><p>Poison guides them back to a booth. Carefully, he tucks a blanket around the two of them. Ghoul grabs his hand and holds it tight. Poison gives it a gentle squeeze that seems to say “we can get through this.” </p><p>Ghoul doesn’t believe it at the time, but somehow he eventually pulls himself together. The only reason he hasn’t considered picking up his raygun is because of Party Poison, who’s never left his side since the moment he coaxed Ghoul out of the car, true to his word. </p><p>The next night, they summon the resolve to burn Kobra’s and Jet’s masks. As they shrivel with the flames and the ashes curl up to the stars, Poison puts an arm around Ghoul. Ghoul leans into him and says softly, “Goodbye, guys.” </p><p>He still feels empty, but with Poison by his side, it’s a little more bearable. Just like he promised, he hasn’t abandoned Ghoul again. In fact, lately, he’s been the one keeping them together.</p><p>“It’s gonna be okay,” Party Poison says, chin resting on the top of his head. “We can be okay.” </p><p>~~~</p><p>In the end, it’s just too bad they didn’t wait another two days for the funeral, because exactly forty-eight hours later, Jet Star and the Kobra Kid come walking into the diner. </p><p>They’re bloodied, burned, and bruised to all hell, but as Poison and Ghoul sprint towards them in disbelief and crush them in a four-person hug, they’re also laughing. </p><p>It takes five full minutes for anybody to get out a single coherent sentence, because everyone starts talking at the same time. Since Jet has the loudest voice, he raises it above the other three's and explains what happened to them. </p><p>Turns out they got the supplies from the seller and were on their way back when they got cornered by four exterminators. They fought them off, but their bikes went up in flames and they didn’t have any way to get to safety. They had to hide out for almost ten days before the coast was clear and the SCARECROWs left their area. After a few run-ins with some dracs and one particularly terrifying encounter with a scorpion, they made it home. </p><p>“You set my mask on fire?” Kobra asks incredulously when Poison tells him. “I spent three hours painting that goddamn thing!”</p><p>Ghoul wants to cry, punch something, and laugh at the same time. He grabs his crew again and picks the last option. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a couple months ago @sleevesareforlosers on tumblr (costumejail on ao3) sent me an ask about how the song "drive" by halsey made him think of poison and ghoul after traffic report, so i owe the inspiration for this fic to him! </p><p>the title of this fic also comes from that song, and both "drive" and "the approaching curve" by rise against were on loop while writing the bulk of this. so i could channel those specific car vibes, you know? </p><p>also i just didn't have it in me to kill kobra and jet, so they got to live this time. (this time.)</p><p>thank you for reading, and you can find me on tumblr @discocritic if you want to send an ask or a DM! comments are also appreciated, of course &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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